


Simple Answers

by glymr, iesika



Series: Complicated Questions, Simple Answers [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, non-canon trans character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glymr/pseuds/glymr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iesika/pseuds/iesika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred always knows just what to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Answers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iambickilometer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=iambickilometer).



> Both story titles come from a Dr. Seuss quote: "Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple." This was a gift for iambickilometer, who inspired glymr and iesika to think a bit harder and deeper.

Tim doesn't know what to do with his hands.

He's sitting on his new bed in Wayne Manor, in a room set aside for him just in case his father doesn't wake up. His father hasn't woken up, but he seems to be stable. Tim doesn't know what to do about that, either. Doesn't know how he feels.

His mother is dead.

He's sitting on the bed because Alfred won't let him put his things away himself. Tim's had a little trouble getting a bead on Alfred, but he thinks he likes him - he's got a good, dry sense of humor that plays well off of Dick's complete lack of reserve, and he can make Batman fall in line with just a glance. Despite that...Tim's not really all that comfortable watching the man fold Tim's underwear.

"Is this your entire wardrobe?" Alfred says as he starts tucking socks away. Socks are safe. Socks are... Socks are just socks, and Tim really needs to calm down and stop wrinkling the duvet cover with his clenched and sweaty fists.

"Yes, sir." Tim says quietly. He'd have preferred to nod, rather than lie out loud, but Alfred isn't looking at him.

"No other luggage that needs to be brought from your home?" He turns around and looks at Tim, but Tim's already spoken once, so it's easier this time. "No, sir."

The sound Alfred makes seems to indicate something interesting has just happened, but Tim's not sure what. He starts to draw his legs up onto the bed, to sit Indian-style, but Alfred's eyes dart to his shoes, and Tim lets his feet drop to the carpet. "We'll have to fit you for a suit or two. You won't be expected to actually participate in any of Master Bruce's social escapades, but you may need to put in a momentary appearance from time to time, and it certainly never hurts to be prepared."

A suit. Tim has a moment's pleasure at the thought, but then it hits him what Alfred means by _fit_ and he shakes his head. "I, um. I can give you my measurements."

Alfred looks at him for a long moment. "If you prefer. Excuse me." He disappears into the walk-in closet and returns with a rack on wheels, a row of empty hangers dangling from the crossbar. "Perhaps a new pair of oxfords. Trainers and loafers are well and good, but a young gentleman needs a proper pair of dress shoes." He starts unfolding the shirts and hanging them, one by one.

"They're hard to find in my size. My foot's kind of narrow. I have to wear thick socks with the loafers."

Alfred raises his eyebrow at him, his lips tightening. "New loafers as well, then." When Tim opens his mouth, Alfred holds up a hand. "I do understand the concern, but I assure you, I will be able to find you a proper fit. You are at a somewhat awkward age for buying shoes in the average department store, but a quality cobbler will know what to do with you."

A _cobbler_. The thought makes Tim laugh. His parents are rich but - were rich. He stumbles over the tenses in his mind, and thinks about his father lying still, tubes running into his nose and his arm and under the blankets. Tim's been to a tailor on two excruciating occasions, but he didn't even know they still _had_ cobblers.

"Hm," Alfred says, sounding pleased. "I do enjoy having someone of your age and disposition in the house, although of course I do wish it were under better circumstances. You also seem to be lacking in ties."

He used to have one - robin red, in fact - but his dad wouldn't show him how to tie it, and when he'd asked, he'd taken it away and told Tim to stop being silly. This time, when Tim thinks of the beep of the machines, it's deliberate. A reminder. "I used to just borrow my dad's." It's not quite a lie, in the factual sense.

"Then we shall acquire some for you. You are, certainly, welcome to accompany me shopping, but if you don't feel up to it, or lack an interest, I shan't have my feelings hurt." Alfred finishes with the button-downs, the sweaters, and the pullovers, and pushes the rack to one side so that he can open the dresser again and start transferring t-shirts into the drawer. Apparently Tim's folding doesn't meet his standards, because he opens each one and holds it to his chest, flipping the sleeves in and the bottom under to make a neat square.

"I'd like that," Tim says, feeling warm. He's never actually been shopping with anyone other than his mother, and half the time that had ended in arguments, anyway. He'd bought most of these clothes himself, while his parents were away on one trip or another. It was just easier that way.

The trousers are safe enough, and the blue jeans - hard to find ones that both fit and look the way he likes them, but they're normal enough. Those all go on hangers too, onto the rack, which Alfred pushes into the closet.

"Thank you," Tim says. He jumps up and grabs his suitcase, to put it away before Alfred looks too closely at it, but Alfred just stands in the doorway and takes it from him.

He lifts the bag - hefts it twice, and then turns it on its side and opens it again, running his fingers along inside the lining. Tim's throat tightens, but he's not actually sure what to do, or say.

He'd assumed Bruce would talk to Alfred at some point - Alfred was involved in making the _suits_ , wasn't he? But if Bruce hadn't said anything, Tim wasn't going to say anything and...and now he's going to have to.

Tim's only just starting to get used to the idea that Bruce is the only person around anymore who knows his real name. His... The name is parents gave him. His mother is dead, and he hates that. He does. But she won't be taking him shopping anymore. His father may very well be a vegetable. He may not live through the night.

Alfred...doesn't tear the lining of the suitcase that Tim had carefully stapled back into place. He pulls his hand out of the bag, sets the bag on the bottom of the rack, and gestures for Tim to get out of his way. "May I sit down?" he asks, and Tim's not sure what his tone means, so all he can really do is nod mutely, until Alfred perches near the end of the bed with his knees together and his hands folded neatly in his lap. He looks at Tim for a moment, his face placid, and then pats the bed at his side.

Tim takes the chair instead. He's not sure where this is going, but he doesn't like it much at all.

"Very well," Alfred says, sounding resigned. He sighs. "Master Timothy. We have not been acquainted for very long, but, if you will permit me to be so bold, I have quickly grown quite fond of you."

The compliment catches Tim off guard, and his eyes dart up to Alfred's face, which is still calm and vaguely benign. The smile Tim gives him in return probably looks just as uncertain as he feels.

Alfred's laugh is really more like a soft huff of air. "May I tell you a story?" Tim nods, and Alfred inclines his head in return. "You may or may not know that I was a field surgeon for a time - a fact which has come in handy on many, many occasions in my years of service to this household. Even before Master Bruce began his crusade, there were times when I was called upon to assist his father in one emergency case or another, if no one else was on hand. I do not have a medical degree, but I have a great deal of practical experience."

Tim didn't actually know that, but he nods. He'd seen Alfred stitch a gash on Bruce's arm, once, not long after he started training, where a piece of shrapnel had pierced the thinner armor at the joint. It makes sense. He's never doubted that Alfred is more than just a valet.

"You remind me rather strongly of a young man I served with for a time. He was a bright fellow, and very capable. Dedicated to his country and to his fellow soldiers. During one particularly disastrous firefight, he carried a wounded man - a much larger, heavier man - to my position and covered us both until I'd done all I could. It's very likely he saved the fellow's life. Unfortunately, he was wounded in the process." He looks away from Tim, then, up toward he corner of the room. "I dragged him out of the line of fire and... You should understand, I had been living with this young man for some months, often in quite close quarters. I was somewhat surprised when, on cutting open his clothing, I discovered that he was not, actually, biologically male."

It feels like Tim has been plunged into a vat of ice water. He *does* know. Bruce told him, or maybe he figured it out for himself. It doesn't matter how - Alfred knows, and now Tim is going to have to *explain*. There will be questions - questions Tim really *can't* answer, because mostly he doesn't even know, himself. The chill fades into a flush of heat, leaving Tim sweating. His heart is beating as badly as it had the first time he'd stepped off a roof.

"Master Timothy," Alfred's sharp voice breaks through the panic a moment later. When Tim's head jerks up, Alfred sighs, and his voice is softer when he continues. "I do wish you would let me make my point before you succumb to the heart attack you are apparently planning."

"I'm sorry," Tim says, hoarsely, and he's not, actually, sure what he's apologizing for, but Alfred just nods and continues his story.

"There was a layer of bandage under his shirt when I cut it open, and I had to get through that before I could reach the wound. The bullet almost certainly struck his lung - he was bleeding, profusely from the mouth - and there was very little I could do but try to maintain a seal in order to keep his lungs from collapsing. If I had been able to shift my focus from that particular wound, I would have noticed the one to his thigh... but it hardly matters. We were at least seventy miles from the nearest hospital, and it is unlikely the SAS would have reached us in time, even if a helicopter had been dispatched. We weren't, technically, supposed to be in the country at the time. Not officially, anyway. In any case... He didn't make it. And I mourned him. Our entire company did. He was a true friend, a good soldier, and one of the bravest men I have ever known."

The rush of feeling that fills Tim at the words leaves him hot and breathless, his vision whiting around the edges. It passes just as quickly, leaving him dazed, with a strange thickness in his throat. "He- She. Um."

"I had known him as Peter," Alfred says. "And he never told me to call him otherwise."

Tim swallows. "He was your friend?"

"More than a friend." When Tim's eyes widen, Alfred chuckles quietly. "Not that. I daresay I would have noticed something amiss rather sooner, had that been the case. I mean to say, he was more than a friend because he was a comrade in arms. It's a distinction I believe you will learn fairly quickly, in this life you've chosen. Facing fire with someone, depending on them for your life, that changes a friendship, makes it deeper, something more like a family."

Tim's already starting to understand that, a little, so he nods. He relies on Bruce more than he's ever relied on anyone. It's a strange feeling.

"This life has its hardships," Alfred says, with a bit of sadness in his voice. "But I hope you'll find that the friendships it breeds are bonds worth any price. You need never have fear that you will be rejected out of hand for some small perceived strangeness. You will be judged on your actions and your loyalties - not some accident of birth."

Tim can't actually speak. He's well aware of what will happen if he tries - knows the prickling pressure behind his eyes for the warning it is. Alfred is looking at him warmly, as if he knows, and Tim finds he has to look away. He tries on a weak smile, and gets a broad one in return. It helps Tim to regain control of his breathing.

"Now," Alfred says, and leans over to catch the strap of Tim's bag, pulling it toward them. He pulls a pen from his pocket and uses it to carefully remove the staples Tim had used to reattach the lining. "Remind me to acquire you a new luggage set, shortly. One with a _proper_ concealed compartment...though this wasn't a bad job."

Tim finds himself smiling for real. "Okay." Despite Alfred's reassurances, he still feels a tightness in his chest and throat when Alfred reaches into the makeshift pocket and pulls out the sports bras Tim had hidden there. The look Alfred is giving them certainly doesn't help, either.

"These," Alfred says, with great disdain, "are entirely too small for you."

"They have to be small," Tim protests. "Or else you can tell...um." He hasn't got a _lot_ to hide, but it's enough to cause problems, despite the diet and exercise regimen he's set himself, to keep his body fat ratio as low as he can.

Alfred shakes his head and presses the offending garments into a ball that he sinks in the wastebasket like a perfect three-point shot. "If the elastic is cutting into your skin, it will be noticeable under a single layer of clothing. I assume you wear an undershirt much of the time?"

"Always."

"Hm." Alfred stands and sets the bag back onto the bottom of the rack. "If you will permit it, I will purchase a selection of athletic or correctional compression shirts." When Tim looks at him strangely, he says. "You're hardly the first fellow ever to find the shape of his chest disagreeable. You have a great deal of options of which you may not have been aware. I'll do my best to help you where I can."

*Help him*. His dad had thought he was going through a phase, his mother had, at least occasionally, put up with it, Bruce hadn't seemed to actively *mind,* for all the awkwardness... But no one had ever offered to *help* before. "Thank you," he says, but the words feel entirely inadequate. He's not sure what the protocol is, here, but he gets to his feet and, after a moment's thought, offers his hand. He's seen Dick hug Alfred several times, but Tim's not really sure if he could do it, as much as he wants to right now. The handshake seems to convey what Tim is trying to express, though, because Alfred's eyes are sparkling, and he his face is warm, yet solemn. "You really, ah....you know a lot about....this kind of thing?"

"My dear boy," Alfred says, letting go of Tim's hand to reach out and brush a bit of lint from Tim's shirt, "in addition to having been in the military, I also spent much of my young life in the _theatre_."

*

When Alfred steps outside and shuts Tim's door behind him, the hall is dark and apparently empty. "Oh, do stop lurking," Alfred says to a particular shadow, and Bruce melts into view.

The expression on his face reminds Alfred rather fondly of the aftermath of many childhood mistakes and indiscretions, rueful and somewhat shamed, though Bruce seems to be in better humor about the matter than he might have been. "I've been an idiot, haven't I?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Alfred says, formally, and sets off down the hall. The roast will be done in less than half an hour, and he still needs to put the rolls in the oven and throw together some sort of vegetables for the side, to balance all the starch in the potatoes.

"Hm," Bruce laughs as he falls into step beside him. "I seem to have acquired several books in the last few days that I wasn't aware I owned. I'm sure you don't know anything about that, either?"

Alfred has been leaving helpful volumes in strategic locations ever since Tim had begun spending much time in the manor. He's not surprised it's taken Bruce this long to notice, though. "It really isn't my fault you can't keep better track of your belongings," he says with a sniff. He turn his head after a moment though, and allows himself a small smile.

Bruce smiles back with his eyes. "Thanks, Alfred. What would I do without you?"

_That_ earns a chuckle, as Alfred pauses to let Bruce proceed him down the stairs. "I'm sure I don't know."


End file.
